He didn’t even look at me. He went straight to my sister.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
And he hit her.
Right in the stomach.
The patio erupted in screams. Fernanda fell against the gift table. My mom shrieked as if someone had died. My brothers jumped on Alejandro and slammed him against the wall. My dad yelled for someone to call the police.
I ran to my husband and punched him in the chest.
“You animal! She’s pregnant!”
Fernanda was crying on the grass.
“My baby! Don’t touch me! Nobody touch me!”
A neighbor, a nurse, tried to examine her, but Fernanda kicked and screamed even louder.
Then Alejandro, still being held by my brothers, yelled:
“LOOK AT HER BELLY!”
I didn’t want to look. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to see him in handcuffs.
But I turned around.
Where Alejandro had punched her, Fernanda’s belly had a deep indentation.
It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t a bruise.
It was as if someone had pressed a pillow into it.
I approached, trembling.
“Fer… let me see.”
